


Balance

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is Nathan's night. (Mostly PWP, for Soubriquet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soubriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



“You need to take a break,” says Nathan, while Harold wrestles with computer cables and with fixing the substandard wiring in the office building that is all their starting capital could afford.

“You should take a break,” says Nathan, while Harold types up the letters pitching their accounting software, since they do not yet have a secretary.

“We've got our first clients, come celebrate,” says Nathan, while Harold's typing in the billing data of those same clients into a spreadsheet, and so it goes, so it goes, there is so much to do-- Nathan talks to the clients and makes the sales but he does much of the rest.

“Harry, _I need a break,”_ Nathan says to him eventually, and flicks the lights on and off and on and off using the wall switch until Harold looks up in irritation.

“Nathan--” He trails off, something in Nathan's posture hanging him up. Nathan has his suit jacket off, draped over a chair somewhere no doubt, and has his shoulders back against the wall, thumbs in his belt loops, body canted like a challenge, hair falling in his face and the hint of a triumphant smile haunting his mouth.

“...alright,” Harold murmurs, yes, it's time to go home, time to be not here but somewhere else with Nathan, but Nathan wants more than that as a concession and his smile broadens. His hand slips from his belt loops and lifts to his blue tie instead, starts unknotting it.

Harold arches a brow, _are you serious?_ Nathan pushes his shoulders off from the wall and starts closer, Oxford shoes skimming the office carpet as he slithers his tie from Windsor knot into a loose coil around one hand.

“... _Nathan,_ ” Harold says, a huff of protest with his eyes flickering to the windows. Many of them are still open.

“It's nine o'clock,” Nathan answers, dropping his other hand down to his belt. “All the office buildings are empty and the good people of the working world have gone home. Except us.”

“And janitors,” Harold answers archly, but Nathan's fingers are jingling his belt open and loose and he watches despite himself, despite prudence, despite propriety.

Nathan slips his belt free with a hiss of leather, tosses it one-handed Harold's way. The computer hums softly, rows of numbers and lines of code forgotten by their master.

He twists his fingers around the belt, digs his trim nails into the leather, while he watches Nathan strip the office from his body one tailored item at a time, shedding the corporate world that they're trying to claw their way into in favor of other, simpler times. Button after button slips free, and Harold watches Nathan's skin appear in a V-strip, until the shirt is tossed into his lap as well, and an undershirt after it.

The office lights are not flattering. But Nathan's still beautiful, his shoulders broad and still tanned from the last days of summer, the curling hairs on his chest leading down over a flat belly to the trousers he undoes-- slowly-- playfully-- knowing that Harold's eyes are on him now.

Nathan throws a boy's grin over one bare shoulder as he turns around, wiggles his ass at Harold from just past arm's reach as he starts to slide his trousers down.

“You're ridiculous,” Harry murmurs, but his fingers are buried in Nathan's dress shirt and his breathing is soft and shallow.

“You _need_ some ridiculous,” Nathan answers with a turn and his trousers drop down to his knees, he's there in just his boxers, and Harold wonders how long Nathan's been thinking about this, watching him and thinking about doing this, because Nathan's hard in his shorts and Harold takes a small, shaky inhale and shifts in his chair, creaking the springs.

Nathan realizes that his shoes are still on, catching up his ability to step smoothly out of his trousers, in the same instant that Harold does.

“You're supposed to take them off first,” Harold murmurs, and Nathan arches a brow at him as he bends down to hunt them.

“Expert on the striptease, Harry?” he asks with eyes gleaming, and he _would_ use that word. Harold licks at his lips and digs his thumbnail into the leather of the belt in his hands.

Nathan undoes his shoes and steps out of them, the curve of his spine magnetic in any light, even ugly office lighting. Harold's eyes trace the sweep of his back, and the movement of his arms, and the tan lines of short sleeves, a relic of summer.

Nathan shimmies out of his trousers. Socks and shorts only now, and the lights are still on and Harold tears his eyes from Nathan's naked skin to the windows again, to the dark outside. They're on the fifth floor and the neighboring buildings appear as the occasional square of yellow light, either people working late or the cleaning staff.

“Nathan,” Harold whispers, a third time.

“You're that bothered by it?” Nathan teases, his ass on the room's other desk as he lifts one foot to take a sock off.

“It's a risk.”

“Then turn off the lights if it's such a big deal.”

Harold hesitates, then rises. Nathan's things slide from his lap and he grabs for them, clutches them to his chest as he crosses to the door, flicks off the lights and plunges the office into quasi-dark-- lit by the glow from his monitor playing green over the desks, over his chair, over a Nathan who is fully naked by the time he turns around.

Harold stands there by the door. Nathan stands there, waiting, nude with his hands at his side, waiting for Harold to come to him.

He checks the lock first. Then he comes back.

Nathan takes back his necktie and his belt and pushes him to sit via a warm hand on his shoulder, warm through his own shirt, and the chair creaks again under him.

He has no expectations. Nathan often defies them, is defying them with this stunt, so Harold hands them over and leans back into the seat and stares up at his partner.

They trade off, they are forever in a dance of who leads and who follows, a give-and-take of initiative and bright ideas. Their gears mesh, except when they grind, but so far the mechanism of their relationship rolls forward, everything in balance and counter-balance, an internal gyro tumbling over and over, in which their differences sustain motion, and their similarities provide a framework.

Nathan studies him a moment and Harold slips his hands from his lap to the chair's armrests, wordless and deliberate, _do what you want, Nathan._

Nathan slides the tie around his eyes and vision goes away, stolen by navy silk.

His breathing seems loud to him, over the hum of the computer. It hitches when Nathan's hands bump his waist and undo his belt. He wriggles forward in the seat to facilitate it coming off.

Nathan's breath is audible too, a soft tickle against his face. Harold listens to his own breath stutter and catch as Nathan uses the belts to coil his wrists to the chair's arms, and tugs the leather tight.

“Next time I say it's time for a break, maybe you'll listen before I have to resort to drastic measures,” Nathan whispers, and his breath is lower, against Harold's stomach.

“You're assuming I have a problem with this,” Harold answers, but his voice is half-to-shaky and they both can hear it.

Nathan responds by touching him through his trousers, no light tease but a hand right to his groin, grasping around what he finds there, palm pressed firm and fingers squeezing.

“Well, Harry, if that's what you want,” Nathan breathes, and undoes his trousers.

It's dark. Nothing gets past the silk and Harold exists in darkness. Darkness: his domain like Nathan's is the sunlight. His wrists bound to his chair, while Nathan slides him out of his trousers and boxers and goes down on him. It's dark, and wet, and warm, and his computer hums with work to be done but his body hums a different to-do list.

Nathan is the public face because he knows how to assess what people want and how to promise it to them, how to smile and make agreements. How to make things flow, fluid and easy.

And Nathan knows how to assess what he wants, how to promise it to him with the clever suck of his mouth, the tease of his tongue and the bob of his head. Nathan knows how to make things fluid and easy, and make his breath falter in his throat and his fingers cling to the armrests.

Nathan knows him.

Nathan knows every spot, every nerve, and Nathan reminds him of that fact. Big fingers burrow into his clothes to find his balls, and up under his shirt to card through his hair and rub a broad thumb over his right nipple.

Nathan _knows him_ until he's gasping and pushing his head back into the chair, jerking his hips up and making the chair protest, biting his lip and tugging at the belts. The chair shifts and rolls with his movements, his toes dragging it in half-inches around the carpet, and there are little jangling noises from the trembling belt buckles.

Nathan doesn't let him go too far. Nathan's mouth follows every move he makes.

“Christ-- Nathan-- Nathan, please,” he pants.

And that was what Nathan was waiting for, it seems, because his mouth goes away and there's movement. And there's Nathan, and there's Nathan, straddling him, and the chair creaks alarmingly as it's asked to support Nathan's weight too.

“--we just _got_ this chair, if you break it--”

“Shut up,” Nathan whispers and presses his mouth to Harold's, cuts off air like he has sight and movement and there's nothing Harold can do but follow Nathan's lead. Not that he's objecting, when Nathan's bright idea is to settle down on top of him, warm thighs jammed on either side of his ribs and Nathan reaching down between them to guide Harold's dick up and _in_ and it's easy-slick in a way that makes him make a startled noise into Nathan's mouth, how long _has_ Nathan been thinking of this? Long enough to prepare, long _enough,_ and his cock twitches at the thought as Nathan sinks his weight down on top of him, pins him to the chair, holds him captive in every way that matters.

Nathan's mouth drains the thought from him with everything else, and Harold goes willingly, moaning as Nathan starts to move, riding him with nothing he can do but try to arch up into the strong muscles of Nathan's thighs and ass.

They trade off. They take turns. Tonight is Nathan's night.

But there's always tomorrow.


End file.
